


The White Swallow

by mrsthessaly



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gay Bar, Homophobic Language, M/M, Numbers is horny as fuck, Pre-Series, Sexual Humor, They barely know each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsthessaly/pseuds/mrsthessaly
Summary: Mr. Numbers walks alone into "The White Swallow", a fresh open gay club, and tonight is not about Wrench. Tonight is about Numbers. Tonight is about getting laid. Tonight is about finding someone to fuck him hard until he forget his own name. Tonight is about putting to good use that lust inside that made him masturbates in motel’s bathrooms like a teenager who just found out about his new toy. Tonight is about relieving some of the too damn much sexual tension accumulated over too damn many months. Maybe tonight is a bit about Wrench.





	The White Swallow

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently being new to a dead fandom is a struggle and I can't get this guys out of my system.

* * *

  **The White Swallow**

* * *

It is not Numbers' first time at a gay bar, but it is his first time at a gay _club_.

Only imagining club's standards may be a bit higher than a common bar, the suit he is wearing is one of the finer pieces in his wardrobe; Italian cut, black, a single vent on the back leaving little to imagination when combined with those tight pants he bought on impulse and never had the chance to wear. Numbers also spent a few extra minutes in front of the mirror doing his hair that night - not that his daily ritual wasn’t already long enough, as Wrench made sure to point out every morning they were on an assignment together.

But tonight is not about Wrench. Tonight is about Numbers. Tonight is about getting laid. Tonight is about finding someone to fuck him hard until he forget his own name. Tonight is about putting to good use that lust inside that made him masturbates in motel’s bathrooms like a teenager who just found out about his new toy. Tonight is about relieving some of the too damn much sexual tension accumulated over too damn many months. Maybe tonight is a bit about Wrench.

When the syndicate joined him to a deaf partner because Numbers was the only one who knew sign language in the organization, he expected anything but a real-life better looking Joe Buck in a fringed jacket. And he definitely didn't expect the asshole to be not only young and attractive, but also _funny_ , _considerate_ and so _nice -_ as far as a murderer able to crush a man's skull with his bare hands could be nice.

But tonight is not about Wrench (or his broad shoulders, his long legs, his round ass inside that faded tight jeans, his piercing blue eyes, his sweet smile, his wet curls as he came out of the bath with a towel tied around his waist only to torture a horny Numbers who began to take increasingly longer showers). Tonight is about Numbers. It’s been awful long since last time he got laid, the absence being the reason he uses to justify his long glares at his partner. If he’s remembering it right, six months. Six fucking months without, well, fucking.

It’s not a good time, place or profession to be a fag, so it can be difficult to find someone to take relieve on. Fargo is out of question - too easy to be identify, too risky, and he sure isn’t that horny to take a chance on getting shot over his libido. When he used to travel alone, he would look for strangers in faraway cities, lie about his name, get them to his motel room, fuck hard and fast and say goodbye see you never, driving off by the morning feeling shameful, but at least knowing he would be fulfilled for a good month. Now, he’s traveling with Wrench. It’s hell. Six months together and he can’t take a break.

The line walks and finally it’s his time at the door. A big security guard look him up and down, maybe considering if Numbers isn’t too old and too suspicious to go inside, but in the end he lift the red strip and let him in _The White Swallow._ Lights are blinking in all colors, the music is loud and fast and occurs to Numbers that perhaps he is, indeed, too old for that place and a bit too well dressed - many men are not even _dressed_. He is not complaining about the muscular men walking around in thongs, just intrigued with the plain boldness.

After all, he didn’t just drove that long to be a prude.

His generation was far less willing to make leather and ass fucking a political standard, and to speak truth his own interest in politics is minimal to none. He's just there for the view. Actually, not just the view. He fast decides dancing is definitely out of question and goes straight to the bar.

The name of that place had made him cringe a few days ago, when the flyer was shoved inside the car as soon as Numbers stopped on a red sign two blocks away from the club. They were just passing by the city on their way to Fargo, a two-week job fresh finished. Two drag queens in neon clothes were advertising the opening of the club at Pride Day and Numbers remembers poking Wrench on the arm to sign that someone would end up getting out of the car and shooting those fags in the face. Wrench just shook his shoulders and moved his head in agreement; from where either of them came from, no one was that reckless, and the ones who were didn’t get to do it for long. Numbers was genially surprised when Wrench not only didn’t punch the man in women clothes pulling at his elbow by the window and calling him _darling_ (well, he probably didn’t catch the last part), but willingness accepted the piece of adverting. He read it without showing more interest than he had going through a phonebook to pass the time before crushing the paper into a ball and throwing it in the back seat. Later, Numbers was looking for that damn thing and trying to suppress the thought of how pathetic he had become.

Maybe if he had been more involved in learning the lessons of the torah and blaspheming less, his life would have taken a different turn and he wouldn’t be driving four hours to get to a gay club in the hopes of find someone big and strong to give him some much needed good time, and forget for a change about the apparent volume on the front of Wrench’s pants.

He’s almost invisible behind the loud and flashy men having the time of their lives at the bar, but after five minutes manage to make his order.

“Whiskey. Neat. And make it double”, he assures the shirtless bartender, who is young, too young, and smiles at him when putting his drink over the counter as if he hadn't just spent the last five minutes ignoring Numbers existence.

With his drink finally in hand, he turns on the stool to take a good look around. The place is full. The music is loud and definitely not to his liking, always been more of a classic rock kind of man above disco and pop, and most of the visitors there don’t really make him look twice. Too muscular, too waxed, too effeminate, too young... Numbers sighs and take a sip of his whiskey, telling himself that he had all night to choose and be chosen. Something will appear. It _had_ to appear.

He's in the middle of his second dose when he notices a boy checking him out. _Boy_ it's probably an exaggeration, but Numbers is sure that if he had had a son in his mid-twenties, as his parents planned him to, the kid would be that guy's age. The idea itself was already disturbing enough for him to pass it, without having to add to it that the two of them are probably looking for the same thing that night. He’s wearing a ragged t-shirt, very short shorts and make-up; everything there screams bottom.

Numbers look away, but he can feel the guy coming closer. He leans at the counter by his side and put himself on his line of vision, making it impossible to ignore.

“Hi, beardy”, he says in a purr, high voice, strange accent. “Do you know you’re the most handsome man in here tonight?”

Well, if that was true, surely he wouldn't have spent the last fifteen minutes feeling like part of the decoration. He is divided into dismissing him roughly, trying to be polite or turning it into a joke. In the end, it was honesty who won.

“Thank you, but I may be old enough to be your father”.

The kid just laughed, a sharp, irritating sound that almost made him regret not having gone with roughly. He grabbed his arm.

“Maybe I’m looking for a _daddy”._ If Numbers had thought he had gone low beyond pathetic, he had to thanks that boy again for enlightening him about how dignified he still was. _That_ was pathetic.

“Now that’s just disgusting of you”. His smile made the other blink, not sure he heard that right, slowly leaning back and letting go of the pressure on his arm. It takes a few seconds for him to understand that the smile on  _beardy_ face was a mockery one.

“Fuck you”.

 _Well, I’m trying to,_ he thought to himself as the definition of faggot in the dictionary back the hell off, disappearing in the crowd on the dance floor. He asks for a refill.

Thirty minutes go by and Numbers begins to think that maybe that was not the best of his ideas; maybe he's not the audience for that place, maybe he's embarrassing himself. He isn't insecure about how his looks, but so many men passing by without stopping to check him twice is not doing wonders for his self-esteem. The problem must be the public - he should have stayed with the bars. It's definitely not him. He may not be the “most handsome man here tonight”, as suggested, but he knows he take good care of himself and clean up alright. His hair is on spot, his suit fits amazingly, everybody loved his beard.

He notice that in some darker corners of the nightclub, big couches and puffs were scattered and many of them already occupy fiery pairs climbing at each other as if they were going to fuck right there, in the middle of all those people, shameless and public sex. One of these couches were located next to the bar. Numbers looked around, wondering if he was the only one who thought that was absurd. No one else was giving importance to the dry-humping happening at his left, so he assumed that yes, he was the only one, and he’s too fucking old for that place.

Well, if they didn’t bothered for privacy, he wasn’t going to bother for them. Numbers was shamelessly watching now. One of them was big, strong, short curly hair, toned stomach under a white shirt flashing out whenever the smaller one pulled it up to run his hands all over. He kind of looked like Wrench, but Numbers managed to cross that thought. The kisses where something else entirely. Even from there, Numbers could see their tongues working out and teeth pulling at lips and dragging on exposed necks. They’re pulling at hair now. The one on top is making highly erotic movements with his hips. He can almost feel it over himself. Holly fuck. Shit. He wants that. He needs that. He curses himself for getting almost hard to their little show and look away. Someone is going to fuck him in the ass tonight.

Maybe it’s time to change strategy.

He asks for another drink, take it down his throat on a long single gulp and knock the empty cup to the counter. It’s time to make his moves work. Numbers get off the stool and enters the crowd.

The music is deafening and the lights shining on the dance floor, added to how much whiskey he just drank too fast, almost immediately make him dizzy. He squeezes himself through the glitter and sweaty bodies looking around, searching for something that catches his eye, some nice specimen like that on the couch, tall, masculine and capable of producing maddening pelvic movements against his crotch. He arrives at the end of the track panting and disappointed. Someone tried to grab his ass, but it was just that damn kid looking for a fucking _daddy_ again. And there's the fact that he really is a little dizzy now.

Reaching for the wall, he leans there and tries to wipe the glitter that fell on his flawless suit. What a shame to dress so well for that, no one there seemed willing to appreciate his effort.

Numbers sigh. He run a hand trough his hair, reassuring that everything is still in place and take another shot of looking around.

He catches something.

Tall, short light brown hair, clean shaved apart from the outline of mutton chops (and he is asking himself if he lost the memo about that things being somehow a trend now?), not that muscular, probably in his late twenties or early thirties; the right age for him not to feel bad about this. He’s wearing plain jeans and a dark button-up shirt with rolled sleeves. Attractive, nice bone structure, seems like a top, and the best part: he is looking directly at Numbers.

Numbers thanks God with the little Hebrew he can recalls when the guy starts walking towards him.

He smiles and gesture to lean his head so he can talk into his ear, music being too loud at that part of the club for chatting. He happily do it. The man’s voice is deep and his breath hot against his cheek.

“You seem a little lost in here”.

He moves away to see the reaction from his words. Numbers dig out his most flirtatious smile and answer, but the beat is too loud, so the man has to get down and put his ear to his mouth. His neck is so close he could just run a tongue to it already.

“It depends”, he shouts back. “Do you like what you found?”.

Usually, he is not so straightforward, but the whiskey has already risen to his head and by now he doesn't want to risk losing that shot. The guy is exactly what he was looking for, and it's not that easy to find someone taller than he is. He is weak for tall men.

The gorgeous piece smiles back. From that close, Numbers can see he has green eyes. Fuck, he looks a lot like Wrench. Shit, there he goes again, bringing it up. Shush it.

He says his name is Matt, but this is the last thing Numbers is interested in knowing, more concerned with calculating in his mind how much time of making out is necessary for being able to drag him into a motel. But he's getting too far ahead. He answer his name is Adam - a lie. The tall one gets down again, his lips brushing against Numbers ear this time.

“I like you suit”. That’s the dream. He is already on his fours for that guy. “You look like a gangster from a movie”.

Well, not from a movie. Numbers will worry later about how that comment can mean trouble at work, but not now, he is still talking in his ear now.

“What’s that tattooed on your chest? Can I take a look?”

He nods affirmatively. Steve or whatever raise a hand and touch Numbers' collarbone. Their eyes gaze into each other long and Numbers was doing his best to make him _knows_ he wants it. He open up his top button and look close at the tattoo, too close, his smell of sweat point out, but not in a bad way. Shit, he wishes he had got “fuck me” instead of “boundaries”. He sees John or whatever laughing.

“Am I breaking any boundaries here?"

Numbers grab at his shirt and pulls him down to whisper. “Not nearly enough”.

Their mouths meet. He kiss soft at first, run a tongue over Numbers lips, slow, as he is waiting for something. Take him a moment to understand he is the one who has to lead - this happens often, Numbers blames his scary face on it, but well, that scary face also pays the bills, so he's not complaining. Bruce or whatever cups his head into both big hands and get to it proper, pressing him against the wall, wet and warm tongue running inside his mouth in an eager pace. It’s difficult to breath, the man is over him like he is drinking water on the desert. It feels wonderful. His mouth taste like some sweet colorful drink would and when Numbers go to his hair, his fingers brush against the perfectly shaved mutton chops of Mr. Perfection. He bite his lower lip and get down on the neck, licking, biting and sucking at skin.

“Careful, I don’t want a mark” he says, and Mr. Perfection (what was his name again?) nods in agreement before picking up from where he left.

Numbers embrace him by the shoulders and dig into the kiss. It occurs to him that maybe he _shouldn’t_ be kissing a stranger, that's one of his own rules for casual sex, being always best to just fuck and say goodbye. But hell, the young ones do it all the time, why should it matter that much?

He bites again, and again Numbers hiss into his mouth. He is smiling, proud of himself for already getting out a weak spot from his hook up.

“I always wanted to do a bad one” he whispers while biting at his ear. Numbers finally get to run his tongue on that long beautiful neck. “You look bad. Are you a bad one, Adam?”

Who the fuck is Ada- oh, he is.

Numbers really don’t want to get all philosophical on that question.

“Can you do me a favor, cowboy?”, hands are slowly tracing the contour of his body, feeling him up, squeezing at his waist, the warm of him pressing his back against the wall and God, it’s amazing, his groin his happy, his stomach is making flips. “Let’s keep it quiet, hm?”

His hopes for a good fuck (he really should have remembered the guy’s name) look down on him and appears disappointed. _Oh no, you’re not backing off on me just from that,_ it’s the thought that makes him pull the man down again and stick a tongue into his mouth. He respond enthusiastically, one arm goes around Numbers waist and the other on his shoulders, a hand pulling his tidy hair and pushing his face forward, hard, rough, deepening the kiss fast and strong, making their bodies so close he can feel himself getting hard against the strangers thigh. He push his back into the wall and shove a knee between Numbers legs, to what Numbers inhale, an almost groan coming out, and closes his eyes as his neck is attacked again and that knee rubs at his growing erection.

He can contemplate his own hypocrisy, dry-humping against the wall when less than ten minutes ago he was judging other people for it, but sure is a happy hypocrite.

His ass is grabbed, two hands slowly spread his cheeks before a tight squeeze make him definitely groan. The fucker is eager and fast and Numbers is not able to know what is happening before he is getting his hand too low and reaching for his asshole over the pants. He can’t really touch it, as far as that pants are tight there’s still a limit to it, but the anticipation is enough to make him go full erect. He feels like a teenager. He wants to punch that guy for being that audacious and he wants to lie down and be fucked by him.

“Motel?” he manage to say into the stranger's ears, light headed with arouser, one big hand lightly palming his cock.

He shake his head. No. Numbers is confused.

Before he can pull out a full sentence again, his back are detached to the wall and his friend is pulling him backwards into something. His eyes are somehow hypnotic, Numbers can't remember the last time a man looked at him with such voracity that wasn't for murderous intent. The back of his knee touch the border of the couch and he falls on it, Mr. Eager scrambling up on top. Oh fuck no. He isn’t going to do it in the middle of the club.

“Hey, hey” he tries to take his head off his neck, forcefully achieving victory on that task. “Are you sure you don’t want to get comfortable at a motel? I can pay for it, my car is outside, it's no trouble”.

“I thought you wanted to be quiet” the smart-ass smack back with a cocky smile. Numbers can swear that man has to be related do Wrench somehow. He almost ask if he knows any Wrench, but of course that isn't really the name of his partner and he has to stop thinking about Wrench. “I can’t get out, my friends need a ride home and I'm the one driving”.

“Can’t they get a taxi? Or just leave them! Come on.”

He laughs and shakes his head. 

“You’re cute, but not that cute”.

Now he is just insulted. And the worst part on it is he’s not even sure what got him more mad, being called _cute_ (him, Mr. Numbers, a Fargo's hitman, _cute_?!), like a fucking baby or flowers or puppies, or that he isn’t even _that cute._

Mr. Asshole seem to get his angry reaction.

“Ow, I don’t mean-… Uh. Sorry, you’re hot”. He is caught off guard by Numbers' face doing his wrath frown, but he doesn’t know he is a killer for hire and a dangerous man, the answer to that previous question being yes, Numbers is a bad one, so the man ignores him and just lie down on top of his chest once more to take his mouth.

Numbers wants do fight, he really do, he knows that’s a stupid idea, but the son of a bitch just pressed their hips together and he is so _hard_ Numbers can feel the length of his cock touching his own and he is too turned-on right now to get out of that grip.

He’s not going to let him fuck him in public or whatever, but that can last a little longer. No one knows him there, so yeah, he can do it.

Numbers relax and accept his fate, letting him sink on top of him and into the comfortable couch.

He gets his waist and pull him up, manhandling Numbers into getting all the way over the couch, his hands feeling him up once more, lingering at his bucket belt, rubbing at his tight, lightly stroking his cock. He bites at his pointing nipple over the shirt and Numbers breath deeply, close his eyes and pretend they’re alone and he isn’t a sad prick getting on edge by a man ten years younger in a place like that. He’s too drunk, but he isn’t, and this is just too damn good.

He doesn’t know when pulled his legs up, but they’re at each side of Mr. Magic Hands now. He is all big and strong between his legs, their cocks hard rubbing at each other over fabric. He squeeze his ass and Numbers' hips involuntarily go forward, reaching for that touch. That’s so fucking sad and so fucking hot, but he’s grabbing at the hot side now. His tongue is all the way to his stomach and he is back up, pulling lightly at his beard, one hand lowering the zipper of his fly so he can slide a hand inside. Before he get to it, he pulls one of Numbers’ hands from his hair and place it on his own erection.

No one was paying attention to that couple before, no one will pay attention to them now, right?

He grabs it. It’s big. He almost drooled over himself. He wants that thing inside of him. He says _fuck me_ , but he isn’t really saying it, he is signing. Why the hell is he signing at the ceiling?

Numbers throw his head back and lick at his own lips, feeling that big hand on his cock, trying his best to jerk him off too and not only lie there plain and useless, and then he makes the terrible mistake of opening his eyes.

Wrench is there.

But he can’t be there, so Numbers just squeeze his eyes. His face is full of lust as he let out a groan lauder than intended, feeling Mr. Almost Wrench between his legs, grabbing at his ass hard and stroking his cock yet inside his pants.

He looks directly at it, that image, until it hits him that it’s not an image.

Wrench is right _there,_ and he is looking right at _him._ His eyes are wide and his face is white as if he just saw a ghost. Numbers can’t move, his whole body frozen, his brain said goodbye and torched everything down.

His friend got his suddenly stiffness and looked too, the sound of his voice being the only thing capable of breaking that awful long eye contact.

“What? Do you know that guy? Who is it?”

Numbers lowered his head quickly, almost hitting him in the chin with the fast movement. Only one word went out of his mouth, the word that had being trundling in his mind over and over.

“Partner”.

“Do you have a boyfriend?!” He is the one frowning know, but if he is mad Numbers is not paying enough attention to care. Still trying to regain his composure, to think of something, who knows if throwing himself in front of a bus will help, he feels lips in his ear again and that voice pulling him to how real that moment is. “Well, he’s kinda hot. Maybe he wants to join us?”

“Wha- No! Shit, no, not that kind of partner” he is kicking his way out and buttoning his shit back on, realizing now he doesn’t even know how it got that much open. Numbers can't think straight. His _friend_ is asking if everything is okay, but his head is not there. Nothing is fucking okay, Wrench is there! Wrench saw him! Wrench... Hell, what? That can't be right. His buttons are already all back in place, the same can't being said about his hasty breath, and thoughts begin to organize. He probably just saw it wrong, right? It's dark in there, it could have being anyone. Otherwise it didn't make the slightest sense.

Slowly, Numbers turns his head around.

Nope, that's definitely Mr. Wrench.

He is not close, but all the way at a different corner of the club, a drink in his hand, that unforgettable brown fringed jacket on his shoulders and all alone. It's hard do miss the man at least a foot taller than anyone else in the bar, even if he's clearly trying to disappear into his own shoulders. His low gaze raise from the floor and is back at Numbers direction. Numbers turn away quickly. Fuuuck!

Did he saw him? Is it possible to identify Numbers face in that dark and so far away? Maybe he is just looking because a guy there looks like his partner, but if he didn't turn again he will keep staring at the back of his head and wouldn't be able to confirm anything.

"Hey, is this going to be a problem? He isn't going to, uh... Hit me, is he?"

Numbers blinks. He had already totally forgot about Good Fuck. The guys seem genuinely concern for his safety, which is not really to blame him for. He should be. If Numbers was, indeed, Wrench's boyfriend, that guy would be dead without even seeing the gun being pulled out.

Options run fast through his mind. He could fly, but it would only confirm it was really him there. He could stay, but maybe Wrench got closer to take a better look. If he already knows, none of that is going to be at any help. If he knows, Numbers can pretty much give himself the luxury of enjoying Good Fuck a little more before dealing with the problem. He is going to be dignify about it, or at least try to, not many dignity left on a almost forty-years old man giving hand jobs in public spaces. He is not letting that get in the way of him scoring some after six months of agony. But he can't do it there, where he is so exposed.

"No", he curses at the pathetic sound he just made and clear his throat. "No, it's okay", tries again, this time with a reassurance smile and a touch to the man's jaw. "Let's go somewhere else. Bathroom?"

He just nods and get up of Numbers' legs, helping him out of the couch. He is holding at his hand while pulling his _date_  trough the crowd, sliding between young hot bodies jumping and sucking face all over the place.

Someone grab the man's arm and he stops; Numbers almost kick him to keep going and _oh god just get me out of here already_ , but he is talking to a group of people a little older than the average rate of the club, laughing with then. He points at Numbers with his head. Four pair of eyes are scanning him head to toe, and if his glare could kill as much as his targets think, the friends of Mr. You're Getting Annoying would be dead already, the ones to blame for him not being right now in a motel room getting fucked like life is great again, instead of running away from his partner, who just saw him being made of a total mess by another man in a relatively public place and pretty much enjoying the hell out of it.

They seem to approve their friend's choice for a hook up that night - if that happened early, Numbers would be quite proud of himself, but now he is just in a hush - and they finally move again.

The bathroom muffles the loud music of the club. The lights are brighter in there and he can take a better look at the man. The dark suited him better. He is still hot, but not that hot, not Wrench's hot. Numbers barely get to review that thought before being shoved inside one of the cabins. That's better, the hot kissing and bodies pressed against one another. The guy is not fucking around, he goes straight to his belt and open it up. Both hands enter his pants, one going to his dick and another to his bare ass.

"Oh, I thought you looked jewish. I like it" he hears the guy purring; a husky sexy purr, not a high and weird one.

Wait- What the fuck?! Did he just take that out of his cock? That's messed up. Or maybe not, it's possible he is just being grumpy and that's just fine. Maybe that's inside the lines between creepy racist and an alright comment to make. The guy liked it cut, okay, men get to have his preferences. Numbers don't really - it always reminds him of an older cousin to whom he owns his first sexual experiences, and the pain of his father's belt on his legs, butt and back as he ran behind Numbers all over the house screaming injuries, his mother crying in the kitchen.

And just like that, he can't concentrate anymore.

He's jumpy, thinking about his partner, wondering what the hell was that about. Why is Wrench in a gay club? Is he being followed? Did he catch something off about his long stares and was waiting for an opportunity to confirm his suspicions? Did Numbers act weird about the flyer two days ago? Is Wrench waiting outside with a gun? A knife? Is he going to put a bag over his head and give him to the syndicate to deal with? Is Numbers going to appear at the newspaper tomorrow as an unidentified male body found into a pit somewhere? He has seem this happen before. His father always said it would happen to him if he didn't went back to God.

He can't breath. He wants that man off of him, which is insane, minutes ago he was more than willing to get some manly touch on his naked skin. He's trying to relax, but he can't.

"Are you okay, man?". The guy is concern with the cinching member he praised to like so much and his previously eager companion getting cold.

"Yes, it's fine. No, actually it's not". A shaky hand run trough hair and sweaty face. "This isn't going to happen, sorry.".

The guys is utterly disappointed, but doesn't argue. Numbers thinks he got to have seen too many sexually confused guys to give a damn anymore. He put his deal back inside his pants, button his shit back on and get out. As soon as he is gone, Numbers does the same. Shit. Too much for a four-hours drive, hm? Six months and counting.

He sits on the toilet and forces himself to think. He is not packing, didn't thought he would have to, and the last thing everyone wanted there was a weird looking man trying to get in with a gun. However, he sneaked a folded knife on his shoe and the glock was fully loaded at the glove compartment of his car. He can protect himself. Numbers breath in deeply and straights his posture, run both hands to the lapel of his suit.  _He can protect himself._ He is not a pussy, he is not some tiny, alone and afraid faggot. He is a goddamn killer, he is menacing, he is dangerous, and if Wrench is trying to mess with him, the son of a bitch will regret it.

Numbers get up and out of the cabin - if it wasn't for the regain confidence blurring his head, he would be impressed with how efficient his self-coaching was by now.

He's calmer when exists the bathroom alone. For a moment, just stand there breathing in the same pace of the loud music, letting time clear his thoughts as he scan the room looking for Wrench. That's not the ideal situation, but it happened, so he will do what it's left to do and just deal with it. No bullshit. Sure he can talk to his partner. Wrench may be a texan, but he seem reasonable enough and not an insane redneck. And they get along just fine, for two hitman with explosive personalities. Numbers likes his partner, and not only for the obvious reasons, but because he's an alright guy. They know each other for some time now, they have drank together, killed together and one time they went to dinner in Fargo together. Maybe he will be gross out and things got weird for awhile, but they can talk it trough. If he's following Numbers around, he may have a reason to it - and, well, if the reason is to kill him, Numbers already moved the knife to his right pocket and is ready to go for it.

The big silhouette that is Wrench is located at the front bar, sitting on a stool. His fringed jacket is off, resting on the counter where he leans an elbow, and differently from the usual many layers of clothing, tonight he's wearing just a flannel shirt. Looks good on him. Numbers shake that thought away as he push people and walks toward his partner, chin up, putting on his best frown to maintain his pose. He's not weaken by that secret coming out, he is still a proud man. He is still Mr. Numbers.

The crowd give some space and Numbers can see the other stools from the bar, not only the one Wrench is sitting. He is talking to someone. No, obviously he isn't, it's just someone talking to him. Wrench is just looking at the person with a blank face, mouth made into a thin line and eyebrows emphatically down. Man, that guy's scowl is frightful. It's a good thing to have him on your back on the job, it's a terrible thing to have him hunting you down. Numbers recognize the piece of shit who is putting one saucy hand on his partner's arm and pressing his muscles with a giggle: the _daddy_ bastard. Thinking about it, he is happy for the guy's impertinence, that touch is all it takes to trigger his partner's temper and the muscles he's palming will be use to shove a fist into the little fag face in seconds.

Numbers is surprised by Wrench only looking down at the guy hand, but doing nothing about it.

Maybe he is... confused? No, not it. Wrench is deaf, not plain stupid. Of course he knows why that man is smiling so hopeful and so close, even if he can't listen to the words he is saying.

Numbers slammed one hand open to the counter, Wrench's beer jumping along with his unwanted company. Both _daddy_ and his partner look up at him at the same time. Wrench's scowl got somehow even darker and he looks away, but daddy just turns his stool and points a finger with colored nails at Numbers. Before he can say anything, it's being cut off by a direct order.

"Beat it". He's not trying to be mister nice guy anymore, not in front of Wrench.

"Oh, give me a break!", the other cried out. "Weren't you just spreading your legs on the smooch couch a minute ago? Let someone else work it tonight, honey!".

Keeping a dignify composure with his face turning red is one of the most difficult things Numbers ever had to pull off in his life. Apparently, people did noticed that. He was a fucking a fool, but a proud one.

"Don't you have father issues to work out somewhere else?" he replied in an calm threatening tone, the one he used on the job. "I'm not going to say it a third time: beat it".

The bastard began to prepare himself to continue the fight, but a touch on his arm made him stray from Numbers' annoyed look and go back to the man he was trying to flirt with. Apparently, in the midst of that little discussion, Wrench had reached for a napkin and wrote something on it. He showed it to _daddy_. Numbers can read it too, the cursive handwritten of his partner declaring " _Deaf_ _"._  It didn't take the kid five seconds to get down from his heels, confusion and resignation across his painted face, and finally he obey the order to beat it.

Numbers is outraged. How come someone be that of an idiot to pass on _Wrench_  over his deafness? Are those people fucking  _blind_? Just look at the man! He quickly decide this is why he kills for living and sit on the stool by his partner, who is drinking his beer like that kind of shit happens all the time and he isn't even mad or tired, just playing along with it.

Not looking at his partner for more than a fast glance, Numbers reach the bartender and asks for a whiskey, neat, make it double, and waited until it was on his hands to finally turn on the stool. Wrench is there, sitting at a gay club drinking the most straight drink they got there, legs wide spread like a true hulk texan, flannel shirt and cowboy boots. He didn't dress up, like Numbers clearly did that night, but he's still attractive - if the man could look good carrying a body, it shouldn't be a surprise that he would look good in every other scenario. He take another sip, not looking away from his partner death glare, like he's waiting for something. That eternal scowl that can mean anything glue to his face. He holds the gaze. Only now Numbers realize he didn't put that much of a thought into the plan. What was he supposed to do or say?! "I'm sorry"?

Wrench set the empty cup of beer on the counter, hands finally free to sign. Numbers eyes went wide at each word his fingers are forming in front of his face.

_That was fast. Bathroom sex not as good as humping on the couch for you? Or the problem was the lack of an audience?_

The dirty signs to "sex" and "humping" he made, accomplish with a mockery set of sexual facial expressions, were enough to vanish dignity in just a distant dream fading away on Numbers red face. Wrench even managed to mimic the position he were in with that guy with his hands for the  _humping_ ; Numbers could be impressed if he wasn't that embarrassed. He clear his throat, pulling himself in a upright pose, buying time to put himself in order and think of something to reply with his partner looking at him with teasing blue eyes hiding behind the habitual scowl. The only thing filling his mind are curses. He didn't expect Wrench to be that direct about the episode, part of him still hoping he hadn't seen much of it. He clearly did. Everyone clearly did. Maybe even his father was going to jump on him with a picture of it.

Numbers finally manage to get a few signs out of his system.

_What do you want?_

Wrench looks confused. One of his eyebrows go up and he tilt his head to the left like a dog. His fingers clench a few times over the knees of his blue jeans before he can sign back.  _What do you mean for 'what do I want'?_

Numbers roll his eyes hard. The club is back to playing an up-beat disco crap and the lights go down for dramatically effect, making Wrench's face glow with neon lights.

_Why are you following me? What are you doing here? What do you want, asshole?_

The man's face is made of stone. Maybe he didn't get it with the lights so low. Numbers wait for a few seconds and is about to ask again when the answer came.

_I'm not following you._

He holds the urge of rolling his eyes once more; too much whiskey in his head, maybe he would get dizzy again overdoing it. Of course he is following Numbers. For what other reason would he be in thr- Oh! Numbers lean back, slow, suspicious, trying to read the unreadable face of his partner in the semi-darkness. Is it possible...? He did read the flyer before shoving it away. And Numbers isn't the one to believe in stereotypes, but over the months Wrench showed a particular interest in mocking people's fashion choices (as if the man himself wasn't a fashion disaster). And would a straight man even use that Village People of a jacket?

That trail of thought is cut by Wrench making his way to answer the second question. Numbers almost fell off his stool.

_I'm doing here the same as you._

Holly fuck Wrench is gay. Of all hitman on the syndicate, his partner is the other fag. The man he has being eating with his eyes and daydreaming about for months. That wouldn't make the sexual tension any easier.

The last question is answer with that half-smile pulled to the side of his mouth.

_And I do want some ass-hole._

The pause on sign for "asshole" was crystal clear on the pun. Numbers swallowed, dry. Shit.

Wrench hold the gaze, one elbow at the counter, waiting for Numbers to sign something. But he don't think he can even remember _words_ , let alone _signs,_ and keep only carefully watching Wrench until he got tired of that blinking game and turned back to the bar to point for a refill. It was obvious Numbers wasn't going to move again soon, so when his drink came back, he took it and turned his torso so he would be facing his partner. Their knees touch and Numbers pulled away. No no no no no. After spending all night looking for a Wrench's look-alike willing to fuck him into oblivion, he knows how that will end if his partner touched his body. The night was already shameful enough.

 _You don't have to worry,_ he was back to signing, the gestures bringing Numbers back to Earth.  _I won't tell anyone about this._

Numbers only shook his head. Guess he should say something back now.

_I won't tell either._

He shook his head too, a slow and understanding nod with his lips pressed together, before signing for _good_.

So it's time for the awkward silence and trade of embarrassed looks. Numbers run his palms to his pants, trying to dry the nervous sweat, and was about to look away when he start signing again.

 _Relax. We are good. You can go back to you what you were doing,_ partner _._

It always made him feel better seeing Wrench sign for partner. Not tonight. Tonight he was too busy trying to suppress the thoughts that Wrench liked men. Tonight he was replaying in his mind that he just made a pun about being there looking for some ass to fuck. The same night Numbers was looking for someone to fuck him in the ass. The mental image of that two facts getting together won't leave; getting to strip Wrench down, fall on his knees and swallow his cock, his big hands spreading his cheeks before sticking inside of him, pulling at his hair, the sound of his balls slapping at his ass as they... Shit.

It took a lot of effort to not just smack an _"I'm available!"_. Not a good idea to throw himself over his partner; maybe he liked men, but he wasn't that much desperate to ruin their professional relationship and risk Fargo killing them both. What was a shame. Numbers would like that - not the killing part, but the Wrench inside of him part.

 _Already ditch him._ Numbers was pulling his casual frown and waving a hand as if in disdain.

Wrench's smile got bigger, cutting the line of a light lip curl and went full grin. It was a feature Numbers had never seen on his face before, made him look even younger.

_Why? Seemed like you were enjoying yourself in there._

"Jesus Christ!". Yep, that wasn't the end of it, Wrench would talk about that shameful low moment of his life until the end of their partnership, they both knew it. The best he could do would be meet him at his level and go full casual.  _The guy called me_ cute, _can you believe this shit?_

Wrench blinked again, confused again, doing that thing with his head that made him look like a giant Labrador again.

_And this is a problem how?_

_Would you like being called cute? I'm not a small cat. Don't you fucking call me cute. Anything but_ cute _._

For a moment, it seem like Wrench is concern about his partner’s mental health, but then he just laughs harder than Numbers ever saw him laugh before; he can even hear how his voice sound like, if the man would talk. It's disturbingly hot. That thought is crossed by Numbers roughly asking what's funny about that and Wrench biting at his lip to stop himself. He points at Numbers, as if saying he is the joke. The son of a... No, that wasn't the end of the sentence, there's one more sign. One index and middle finger touch his chin and rest there for a while, eyes trying to get a reaction from his partner's face to the sentence.  _You're cute._

Numbers tenses. Soon he decides that was probably the following of the joke, as everything else about that ridiculous night, and drowns back to his whiskey.

 _So,_ Wrench's hands moving again made him look up. He waits until having total attention to ask. _It was not that good?_

_Stop bringing it up, man!_

_Why?_

_It's embarrassing! I don't want to talk about it! Sorry you had to see that, alright?_

_I'm not._

Numbers froze, again. Wrench smiled, again. He was holding his breath as the man leaned closer on the stool, those piercing eyes locked on his own. Numbers was ready to go for it and blame his drunkenness, even though he isn't nearly as much drunk as he would like to be.

_Never saw your hair like this before._

The hell with his hair - and never in his life he tough he would ever joke about that. Quickly turning to the bar mirror, he realize his perfect hairstyle is a total mess, pointing at everywhere, screw up in all the places Mr. Not Wrench had grabbed. He run a hand through it, trying to make it look less of a horror.

 _Can I ask you a question?_ Fuck no. With the way the night is working out, probably it's not a good idea to know what that question is about. But Numbers nods a yes anyway. Wrench lick at his bottom lip and take a few seconds reading his partner's face in an irresolute way, as if not even he was sure about making that question.  _Am I your type or something?_

That was not what Numbers was expecting and surprise shows on his face. He is more than certain doesn't matter what he's going to answer now, already betrayed by even his ears going red.

_What kind of mess up question is that? Why do you want to know?_

_I always thought you looked..._ Instead of signing for a word, he just point at the crowd of gay men around them, and then at Numbers, his hair, clothes, the way his legs were crossed. Ok, he got the message, he looks queer.  _And for some time now I got the impression you check me out whenever you think I'm not paying attention. But I do. I notice things. And that guy you were rubbing on looks a lot like me. So, am I your type or something?_

 _He doesn't look nothing like you._  Wrench didn't even had to object, the look on his face saying they both knew that was a lie. Numbers drank the rest of his whiskey and let out a sigh. _I'm not fifteen, I don't have a type._

_Of course you do. Everybody does._

_Oh yeah? What's your type, then?_

_I like them hairy and classy._

There's no way he was misunderstanding that. Wrench was fucking hitting on him. Holly shit. Hairy and classy? He should be laughing at it, it was a terrible pick-up line, but Wrench is looking at him in the way he only did before in Numbers' sexy dreams. That was happening.

_Do you think this is a good idea? We work together._

_We are not working now._

The hell with it. The hell with everything. He deserve a good fuck tonight and he deserve it to be with the man he was jerking off to for months. Wrench had caused it, it was only fair he would deal with the problem. Numbers drop the glass and settle better on the stool, turning his torso and legs. This time, he didn't mind their knees touching. His partner seem to got the cue. Wrench leaned more forward, their legs interlacing, thighs slightly brushing together. He wanted to get closer, feel his arms and chest, but just in case it wasn't that clear, he decided to keep talking.

_Why did you said that before?_

_What?_ They were so close now when Wrench lowered his hands, one of them fell into Numbers' leg.

_That you're not sorry you saw me._

He licked at his bottom lip. If the son of a bitch did that one more time, the next tongue in his mouth would be Numbers' one.

_I like the way you looked back then, not in control, helpless. I like the way you looked turned-on. I like the way your hair gets messy and you lost your saucy attitude. I would like to be the one doing that to you, make you feel all good and hot. Makes me annoyed that guy weren't doing it right._

_And why weren't him doing it right? How would you do it?_

That hand pressed his thigh and Numbers inhaled, deep, heart beating fast again. Suddenly the front of his pants are tighter.

_I would make it nice and slow with you. There's no rush. I would taste all of you first, lick you up and down and treat you like you deserve-_

_Stop._  Wrench blink at the hand up to his face, cutting of his dirty talking in half. He looks concern he maybe got the wrong message, but Numbers only give him a devilish smile. _No need to be nice. Don't be nice. I want you to tear me apart._

He was taken back, surprised. Cleary he didn't expect that much attitude from his uptight partner. But soon his eyes where back to the game, glaring at him even more fiercely.

_Do you want to get out and fuck right now?_

_Yes._

They pay for the drinks, eyes throwing intense glares at each other, and get off the stools to walk to the exit. The place is still full and Wrench is walking so close Numbers can feel his breath on the back of his neck as something else, big and half-hard, rubbing at his butt. A hand slide on the curve of his ass on the way out and he's smiling to himself thinking maybe he should start using those pants more often, and that night wasn't, by far, the worst of ideas.

In the end, the night was all about Wrench.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write the smut, but somehow it felt better to end it like this.  
> BRIEF: they fuck on Wrench's pickup he parked in an alley nearby. Really classy. Numbers never got more than a few days without fucking again.  
> .  
> I'm writing something big and more "serious" and canon about this wonderful ship, and I told myself it would be the only thing I was going to do on Wrenchers, but I'm totally hooked, the other fic is taking too long and I just can't help myself. I haven't written fanfiction in, like, five years! Someone help me.  
> Hope you enjoyed this. It was really fun to write.


End file.
